20 Years

Dad died 20 years ago today. For once, something really does seem like it happened that long ago. Twenty years sounds like a really long time, and it is. A generation. RIP, Dad.

It's Not Over Yet

Mom and her brothers: Al, Ray, Mom, and Art

I was just at the point where I thought, “I don’t know if I really have anything left to post to the blog.” Maybe at anniversaries, but I had nothing more to say. I’m not one of those bloggers who writes daily or weekly or even monthly “columns” of useful or interesting information. I pretty much write what I hope will be helpful to me. It’s not exactly, or maybe not only that I’m being self-serving. It’s really just all I think I have to offer.

Then two weeks ago today, I got a phone call from my Aunt Marian. Marian is the wife of my mom’s younger brother, Art. As soon as I saw the name on the caller i.d., I knew why she was calling. Uncle Art had died at 4 that morning. He’d been in the hospital or a nursing home since December. She didn’t know what they would consider the cause of death; he had Parkinson’s, and a number of other health issues. His latest problems were all respiratory.

I expressed my condolences, thanked Marian for calling, and asked her to call me back once the arrangements were made. I wasn’t seriously considering attending the funeral, but I did want to know the details.

The thing is, I did not expect that the news of Art’s death would affect me the way it did. Even though on some level I was expecting it, I was stunned. The news affected me rather strongly. It sent me deep inside, which I guess is really me withdrawing into myself while I try to process something. I’m still not sure why I had such a strong reaction. Art was the youngest of the four Leininger children, 2 years younger than Mom. Al and Ray (first and second respectively in birth order) had died years ago. I believe Ray’s wife Geneva has also died, but Al’s wife Analie is still alive, and of course, Art’s wife Marian. And yet, Art was the last of the Leininger children in that generation. In some ways, I guess, it is the ending of an era.

Mom did not stay particularly close to her brothers during the time we kids were growing up. Art and Marian, along with their kids John and Kris, were by far the ones we saw most often. Even with them, I think my dad was more of the driving force to spend time with them. We liked Uncle Art and his family. Uncles Al and Ray, the rarely seen, were much crabbier, I thought, and scarier.

The evening after I received Marian’s call, I sent an email to my siblings, letting them know. I told them Marian would be getting back to me with additional information. Two or three days went by, and I heard nothing back from Marian or my siblings. I couldn’t believe they were just going to not respond. Then Marian called again. During all the arrangements, she had forgotten if she was supposed to call me back or not. She asked if she could email the information to me, which I was fine with. Then we actually had a nice chat. My last few (and infrequent) encounters with Art and Marian over the phone while Mom was staying with us were on the strange side. In fact, I think I’ve always thought Marian a little odd, and Art seemed to be growing more so. But first when I talked to Marian last year to tell them Mom died, and now again with Art’s death, she seemed surprisingly fine—not odd, even likable. It was refreshing to have this talk with her.

The next day, the email with Art’s funeral information arrived, and I forwarded it to my siblings. Lo and behold, they each wrote back. Paranoid? Me? Well, perhaps just a touch over-sensitive.

The day after Marian first called me with the news about Art, I was already over the initial shock. I still don’t fully know what that was about. But as soon as you think, I have nothing more to write, look what happens. Not always a death, I’m assuming, because I do actually have another entry I want to write when I get the time, which is Mom-related but not death-related. So here’s to Uncle Art, and I hope to write again soon.

The First Anniversary

Written Feb. 16:

Saturday, February 12, was the first anniversary of Mom's death. It seems impossible to believe that it has been a whole year already.

The last few weeks have been difficult for me. Knowing the anniversary was so near, my emotions--all of them--have been right at the surface. It's hard to maintain a steady course when the waves are so constantly roiling.

When Mom died, there was the relief that now she would be at peace, and she no longer had to suffer. There were all the details of the death to handle, from getting the death certificate signed, to notifying family and friends, planning the memorial service, settling the estate, and all the other countless little things that needed attending to. There was adapting to life without her, without having to care for her, to arrange to have someone at home with her at all times, to dealing with (often fighting with) the health professionals and caregivers, and trying to figure out what is best for someone who could no longer communicate. Missing her was not immediate.

But now I miss her. As I continue to recover/uncover all of her, and not just who she was for the last few years as the Alzheimer's slowly robbed her of more and more of her functionality and her self, I miss that whole self more and more.

March 6:

I never finished that post, and now, today it is the one-year anniversary of Mom's memorial service. (On a side note, it is also the one-year anniversary of my friend Shelly's 52nd and final birthday party, the one I couldn't attend because of the service. Shelly died of pancreatic cancer in June). I have read in a couple of different places that it is the leading up to the first anniversary that is more difficult than the anniversary itself. That has certainly been true in my case. It seems that roiling emotions just relaxed into calm waters on the actual day of the anniversary.

Jeanne and I (and Cleo, the wonder dog) drove to Green Bay that day. It was the Saturday after the Packers won Super Bowl XLV, so of course our first stop was at the Packers Pro Shop at Lambeau Field. Someone asked what that had to do with remembering Mom. She and Dad had season tickets to the Packers games for all the years they lived in Green Bay. Mom preferred watching on TV, so when my brothers got older, they often went with Dad instead. Now they have inherited the tickets. Mom would sometimes tell me how when they first moved to GB, the games were still being played at the Green Bay East High School field. All four of us kids graduated from East. Cheering for the Packers was something Mom could still do even after watching most other TV shows became meaningless for her. Our visit to the Pro Shop may have been motivated by self-interest, but it's not like there are no connections to the Packers in my memories of Mom.

After the Pro Shop, we drove to the cemetery. The flat headstones were all covered with snow, so we trudged around in the vicinity of the grave, but under the snow was a layer of ice, so we couldn't dig through to the headstone itself. That was no big surprise, and it was okay. I don't need to see the marker to know it's there.

Then we drove to the nearby McDonalds to use the restrooms, and saw Kaap's Fine Candies next door. I won't go into the long history of Kaap's in GB, but will say that it was an old German restaurant, with a bakery and candy shop. Everything they made was out of this world. Otto Kaap is long gone, as is the restaurant with its dark wood interior on Washington Street, but the candy shop survives on Webster Avenue. Jeanne and I had to stop, and we picked out a pound of the best dark chocolate candy I've had in a very long time. And I eat a lot of dark chocolate! Even though I'd never been in this store location before, just being in a store called Kaap's, with pictures of the old restaurant, and the familiar candy boxes, brought a lot of memories back.

Positive memories (except for the bedevilment of knowing I may never again have a cheesecake like Kaap's used to make; that recipe was not saved when the original restaurant closed, and I've never seen a cheesecake like that--tall and light--again. What a loss!).

By the time we left Kaap's, it was snowing and getting dark, so instead of dinner at Titletown Brewery (a restaurant Mom was pleased to introduce us to), we drove home. All day long, I felt so calm, even peaceful, as cliche as that sounds. It was nothing like the emotional weeks leading up to this first anniversary. Go figure. The "grief book" was right on target about this.

And yet, it took me three weeks to write this. Ah, I'm sure it's just because I've been busy.

2011

Christmas has come and gone, and the new year has begun. It's zooming in on one year since Mom died, and more and more I have begun to miss her. Not just the healthy Mom, but also the Mom I cared for as Alzheimer's transformed her. I wasn't sure that day would ever come.

The holidays are always stressful; because I teach, I'm busy grading almost right up to Christmas, making preparations difficult. This year was worse, I confess. So one night Jeanne and I watched the slideshow we prepared for Mom's memorial service. It was very helpful. I find watching it healing. It gives me my mom back, through all stages of her life.

Mom & Paul (the oldest), circa Christmas, 1952

On a slightly different note, I read an exceptional article in the New York Times today. I don't keep up to date with reading about Alzheimer's, but when I do, their work seems to me the best and most relevant on the topic. Here is a link to the article entitled "Giving Alzheimer’s Patients Their Way, Even Chocolate": http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/01/health/01care.html?ref=homepage&src=me&pagewanted=all

Jeanne and I did some of these things intuitively, like giving her a piece of chocolate as a treat. She could be at her most shut down, and we would say "chocolate," and she would put her hand out to receive it. But we were also incredibly vigilant about making sure Mom ate and did what was healthy for her more than what she wanted. I would have done a few things differently had I read this article 2 years or more ago. I recommend it highly.

So, all said and done, here's to a new year of grieving and recovery. I'm hoping for good things gradually developing.

I'm in the picture, so this is probably Christmas, 1959

The Six Stages of Grief

This last semester has been a struggle for me. My students have been good, thank the universe, but everthing else has just been difficult. I have been feeling inadequate, and as though I can't do anything right. I didn't really think it had anything to do with Mom's death. I don't remember experiencing anything like this when Dad died. Forget the fact that I'd always been much closer to Mom than to Dad. And the fact that I cared for Mom on a daily basis for the six years that she lived with us, that I was responsible for her, that I was with her when she died, that I helped clean her and dress her for the funeral home. It's taken me a couple of months, but I finally figured out that these feelings are a part of my grief. Kubler-Ross missed this one; the sixth stage is inadequacy.

And now that we have just celebrated Thanksgiving, I feel a grief that feels more like what I think grief should feel like. Our first major holiday (summer holidays don't count, and for some reason, neither did Easter) without Mom. We had Jerri and Dave and the grandgirls over for our traditional holiday brunch, and realized it was the first one without her. There was a lot less stress, not having to get her up, to feed her, toilet her, and get her down for a nap during this family time. And I felt my loss of her keenly. Then the realization that we were almost to my birthday, followed by Christmas. The first Christmas without her. That's something I'm not looking forward to.

We watched The Family Stone last night. I've seen it 3 or 4 times before, so I knew I was running the risk of a meltdown (if you are't familiar with the film, all I'll say is that it is about a family of parents and their adult children and partners getting together for Christmas. If you are familiar with the film, you don't need a spoiler to tell you why it was loaded territory for me). I didn't meltdown, but it was "helpful" in getting me in touch with my grief. I don't think I'm through with the inadequacy stage, but I am also moving into sadness, which according to what I read, is technically part of depression. That's where I would guess inadequacy falls, as well.

What I most have to remind myself is that there is no timeframe around when I should be "over" this. Some people have told me it took them 2 years to feel normal again after the death of a parent. I guess I shouldn't necessarily expect next semester to go more smoothly than this one. At any rate, grief is upon me, and rather than try to think ahead, I think I need to live today. Grief and all.

Next

Now that I am no longer caring for Mom, the obvious question is, what does this blog become? The title states its original reason for being. I wanted a place to write about and share what I was going through while trying to care for my mother as she was slowly dying of Alzheimer's. Now that she is gone, the answer seems clear--for now, at least. Now this is about grief. This is so much about grief that I thought it was too much, and I didn't post what I wanted to post in September. Let me take care of that now.

Two years ago, around Thanksgiving, one of our three cats suddenly became very, very sick. We first realized it on a Wednesday afternoon. We called the vet's office, described her symptoms, and they said we needed to bring her in right away. But here's the thing. It was our day with our granddaughters; Avri and Kiana were over. They were 2 and 4 at the time. And Mom had just gotten home from day care. There was no way one of us could handle all 3 of them. So we waited until Thursday, and Jeanne took her in while I was at school. They kept her over night, on IV fluids. We almost lost her. But she was a strong cat, our Juno, and she recovered. We had to give her subcutaneous fluids (think of kitty dialysis with an IV bag); I think we started with either every day or every other day. Eventually, we got her down to once a week, but she had kidney failure, so this was a rest-of-her-life thing. And pills, which I think she hated more than getting stuck with a needle and pumped full of fluids until she looked like a camel. But Juno was strong; the vet said she had never seen a cat recover as well as Juno did.

Then this September, she developed pancreatitis. She was throwing up, couldn't eat or drink, and eventually started an almost constant oozing of blood and runny stool. It was a mess. We became regulars at the vet's office, even stopping at her house a few times to pick up meds. But nothing worked, and on September 16, we took her in one last time. The vet took one look at her, and said, "She's ready. She's in pain, and she wants to go." We'd said most of our goodbyes at home, including having the other cats and the dog having one last moment with her. But said our final goodbyes, and the vet administered the shot. Our baby was gone.

I didn't feel I could write about Juno's death when it happened, not because I didn't want to, but because I felt that it was too much. Too much what, I'm not sure. Too much death, not enough balance. I am not a morose person, but sometimes I think this blog is. So why am I writing this now? I'm struggling (more on that in a later post), and I think I've found a new direction for the blog (sort of), and first things first. Juno is gone, euthanized 3 weeks before her 1th birthday. Her sister Selu is meowing at me as I write this, telling me to go to bed so she can go to bed with me. Sounds like a good idea, but first, my little Juno tribute.

The 3 girls in their youth

Juno

Juno and Selu, sisters, in one last photo

Happy Birthday, Dad

He would have been 88 today. His mother lived to be 90; she was the only biological grandparent I knew. Dad's dad died young. I think my dad was 17 when his dad died. I'll have to look it up. Dad died a month short of his 69th birthday, 19 years ago. And Mom died 6 months ago yesterday.

So many dates and anniversaries, I begin to wonder if there are too many to really mean anything, other than I get lots of memory prompts in the summer. They each mean a little less the farther I move away from them. I used to go to the shore of Lake Michigan and send Dad a Happy Birthday balloon every year on this date. After 3 or 4 years I stopped. I no longer felt that need.

Yet I also notice that I do not forget these dates. I make a point not to forget all these dates. They must mean something; in fact, I feel as though their meaning is probably fairly obvious. Maybe it's too close, staring me in the face, as they say, so that I cannot make out the relevance of remembering these milestones. Or maybe that's the point, remembering. Those casually tossed off "memory prompts" are the meaning. Wisdom has it that one mustn't live in the past. Ignoring the past is, on the other hand, ignoring what made us what we are in the present.

Whatever the meaning, the memories are here, as is the love (and the fights and the laughs and the dysfunction). Another milestone, more memories, another summer day.

Another milestone

When last I wrote, I mentioned that my dad's birthday is this week--tomorrow, actually. What I didn't even realize was that today, August 12, is the 6-month anniversary of Mom's death.

I had lunch with a friend/colleague today, a mutual friend of my colleague who died two months ago tomorrow. We talked a lot about death, and her aging parents (her mom has Alzheimer's). I would not say it was a morbid conversation, however, or even a depressing one. It was a necessary one, perhaps. What I have found, especially in these past 6 months, is that there are a fair number of people out there who will do anything to avoid talking about, and thus thinking about, death. Quite frankly, that doesn't work for me. Death is a natural consequence of life. To try to ignore it makes absolutely no sense to me. Acknowledging it, accepting it, even expecting it seems not only rational, but helpful. Being at my mom's side when she died was an incredibly grace-filled moment. I felt that she honored me by allowing me to witness that transition.

So a lunch conversation about death does not strike me as odd or morbid, but in many ways as helpful. Death happens.

And Mom, wherever you are now, it cannot be as bad as the hell of Alzheimer's, so I don't wish you back, but I do miss you. I hope that whatever place you are in, in whatever form you are in, it's giving you peace.

Pilgrimage

Monday, July 26, would have been Mom's 88th birthday. To mark the occasion, Jeanne and I drove up to Green Bay (with our dog Cleo). We hadn't been to the cemetery since Mom's burial and the engraving being finished. So I bought a plant, which is surely dead by now unless "neighbors" are watering it, and placed it on the grave. Here is a partially shaded photo:

We didn't stay long at the cemetery; there's not much to do there. So we cruised past Mom & Dad's old condo. We also found my childhood home, which got moved when the YWCA bought the lot for parking. I knew what street they moved it to, but not which block. So we drove up the street until I recognized it; it's a big house, and had a few identifying features that made me confident that I'd correctly identified it. That was enjoyable; I loved that house. We also drove past my old high school, to make sure the headless children still had their heads reattached (long story, but one that always brings a smile. I may have to tell it some day, as Mom has a significant role in it).

Then we picked up some lunch, and had a little picnic at a park by the river. It felt surprisingly freeing to be in my home town with no agenda, no one to have to see, nowhere to have to be.

And then we drove home. I did not feel overtly emotional that day, but I could feel the next day that things were not their placid normal selves. Not much more to report than that. Getting ready for Dad's birthday next week. As I mentioned in my previous post, this is the season of remembering for me.

Anniversaries

Today is the 19th anniversary of my dad's death. Monday is the 88th anniversary of my mom's birth. Mom was never crazy about her birthday, and once Dad died, 3 days before her birthday, she liked them even less. Even as Alzheimer's took her mind, some part of her seemed to remember these dates. Ever since she came to live with us, and possibly before, this time of the year was difficult for her. Her moods and demeanor would be a little darker and agitated in mid-to-late summer. She was unhappier. And it definitely was not because of the weather. Wisconsin summers are too short, and she disliked the winters too much for us to think it was a "seasonal" effect. We're sure it was an anniversary effect, though perhaps never conscious.


For me, this is also a time to remember these anniversaries. I try to stay focused on the happy memories.

Grief redux

Back from vacation to California and Arizona. Actually, I presented at the American Literature Association conference in San Francisco, which we used as an opportunity for vacation. Our friends Karri and Pete live in Oakland, so with the exception of the night before my presentation, when we stayed in the beautiful Hyatt Regency, we stayed with them. They are incredible hosts, so we had a great time. My presentation at the conference, despite being in a terrible time slot, went really well.

Lobby of Hyatt Regency SF

Karri and Pete also took us to their bungalow in the Sierra Nevada foothills for a few days, with one day trip to Yosemite. That was spectacular. Can I limit myself to one picture? I took many. Okay, let's do two.

Okay, maybe three, as I have to include our hosts.

One thing that struck as we drove and walked around northern California with Karri and Pete was how often I thought of a story about Mom. I finally made myself stop sharing them, they came up so often. Oddly enough, I can't remember now what those stories were. I think some of them probably had to do with family vacations as a kid, but honestly, I'm not sure what to attribute the abundance of Mom-sharing to. Karri was perhaps the most consistent of my friends to call me and see how we were doing with Mom's care while she was with us. But there was more going on than just that.

Golden Gate Bridge

We also spent 4 days in Mesa, AZ, with our daughter Jobee and her boyfriend Justin. We had an enjoyable, relaxing, and hot time there, including a visit to the Phoenix Botanical Gardens.

The truth is, I'm only giving a very abbreviated version of our vacation. When we got home, we took a few more days off, then started working our way back into some sort of routine of work and downtime. I was supposed to go to lunch on the Tuesday after we got back with my friend and colleague, Shelly. Shortly before leaving on our trip, I attended a work-related 'retreat,' and that's when we set the date. Shelly was diagnosed almost exactly a year ago with pancreatic cancer. She had surgery, but was constantly struggling with chemo and radiation. They would start the treatments, and her platelets would go out of whack. So they would stop, and try another dose, combination, whatever. So things like lunch with a friend were a high priority for Shelly, especially since she didn't always know if she would be feeling up to it on any given day.

The day before we were to meet, I sent her an email, asking where she would like to meet. That evening, when I checked my email to see if she had answered, there was an email from a mutual friend and colleague, Ellen, with the subject line "News about Shelly." The email said I should call Ellen. I knew this was not good. I called her. She, too, had just returned from a two-week vacation. She reported that Shelly had been have trouble with a post-surgery stent, and had been in and out of the hospital while we were both gone. The Thursday before, she learned, Shelly became unresponsive. On Sunday, June 13, Shelly died.

Shelly and I were friends, though not in each others' closest circles. And I can't stop thinking about Shelly, and how sad it is that I will never bump into her on campus, and that we'll weren't able to have that last scheduled lunch. Shelly was a great teacher, tough and demanding, and I admired her dedication and the tremendous hard work she put into moving her students to a new level of understanding. And I know that somehow, the grief for Shelly is weighted on top of the grief for Mom, magnifying both.

And I can't stop thinking about the loss, our loss, now that Shelly is gone.

Love

Grief is a strange beast. I rarely feel actively sad about Mom's death. Mostly I feel strange things going on in my physical self. I'm tired a lot, even though I get enough sleep. I have more aches and mysterious pains than I used to, and I'm convinced it's not just a part of getting older. Not all of it, at any rate. I was talking to someone I know who has recently been through more than his share of grief. He said that while he was in the midst of his wife's cancer, people kept asking him if he was okay. He always said he was, because he didn't realize until after her death that he wasn't. You have to keep going, and you don't recognize the effects caregiving takes on you. Then after his wife died, he said it was like all the air rushing out of a balloon. It's an apt metaphor.

Recently, I've started remembering Mom more. Up until now, it's been a lot of blankness. But now I start to think of her more often. I remember her, her life, not just the past 6 years. She was a great mom.

This may seem a bit after the fact, but I am posting the eulogy I wrote for Mom's memorial service. I guess it's time.

I would like to read from 1 Corinthians 13:

If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.

So I trust that, with love for my mother and my mother’s love for me, my words will be neither a noisy gong or clanging symbol.


And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Of the people I’ve spoken to in the last 3 weeks, almost all described my mother as a lady. And she was.
And she was patient, and kind, and never arrogant or rude. One of my favorite
stories’ of Mom’s was about how she met Dad. She was working in the treasurer’s office at Wartburg College. Dad was teaching there.
Mom’s home congregation in Nauvoo, IL was temporarily without a pastor.
They were getting supply pastors from all around, and one week, Dean Kilgust was
tapped to go preach there. Mom’s roommate, Arlean, told her, “Ask him for a ride; you can go home and visit your family. Besides, he’s single.” Mom, who was already in her late 20s and convinced marriage was not in her future, said, “No, I don’t want to ride with Dean Kilgust. He’s so arrogant.” Well, Arlean finally convinced her that it was a free ride home, and worth putting up with Dean for. Mom told me that on that ride to Nauvoo and back with Dean, she saw a different side of him, and found out he could be thoughtful and kind. And the rest, of course, is history.

It was not until Mom came to live with us that I found out how strongly that love endured. When words were becoming hard for her to use anymore, we would often get the picture albums out for her to look at. She enjoyed that most of the time, but the only time her face would light up would be when she would see a picture of Dad. Then she would gently touch the photo, and sometimes stroke his cheek. I always knew my mom loved my dad, but it took Alzheimer’s to show me that she was in love with him.

Language was the first thing Mom had trouble with due to Alzheimer’s. She loved to read, and always had a stack of library books next to the love seat she would sit in. She, more than anyone, modeled for me the reading that became both my love and my life’s work. It was when Mom could no longer remember what some of the words she was reading meant, words that she knew she knew, that she went to the doctor and was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.


Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end.

Mom endured Alzheimer’s with a grace and dignity I couldn’t quite fathom. When something she used to be able to do became hard for her, she would say, “Well, that’s the disease. I won’t be able to do that anymore.” She wasn’t perfect, or a saint, but
she faced her disease with more acceptance than I thought humanly possible. She never asked, “Why me?” and she didn’t complain.

As her disease progressed, people would often ask, “Does she still know you?” That was always hard to answer, because I don’t believe she knew our names, or who we were to her, but she did know us. She knew that Jeanne and I were the people who were always with her, and who cared for her, and who kept her safe. On that last day, she knew we were out that afternoon; she knew when we got home; and she knew that when we got her into bed and comfortable, that she could finally leave.


For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end.

Being a witness at my mother’s death was one of the greatest gifts she’s given me. It was a privilege to be with her at the end of her life on this earth. And now she is complete again.


When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways.

For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.

And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

Mary Kilgust embodied love, and I am blessed to have had her as my mother.

At the Hairdresser's

Yesterday I got my hair cut. I know, by itself, not exactly big news. But this stylist is the same woman who has done Mom's hair for at least the last 5 years, maybe 5 1/2. She said that she cannot believe the number of people who have been asking where the lady in the wheelchair is. Not just her customers, but the customers of the other stylists who rent spaces there. "It's amazing," she said, "how many lives your mother touched."


It's amazing indeed.

The End of a Long Journey

Mary Margaret Kilgust finished this stage of her life on Friday, February 12, 2010. I don't pretend to know what the next stage is, but I know that she has been released from the fear and pain she endured on this earth.

She died the way we hoped, at home, with Jeanne and I at her bedside.

She'd had a rough week, starting with diarrhea on Wednesday, which weakened her so that she could only manage to swallow 2 or 3 bites at each meal. By Friday, her breath was labored; we could hear how rigid her lungs were becoming. We went out that afternoon while an aide sat with her. We got home around 4:30. She woke up, and stayed awake. Her breathing was so labored, more so when awake than when sleeping, so after talking to the aide and the guy who split some wood for us, we fed the animals, and decided to put her right to bed. We changed her, got her into bed, and raised the head to try to help ease her breathing. She was so clearly struggling, we both stayed with her, talking to her, trying to help her relax. Then she took 3 or 4 agonal breaths, and she was gone. We'd been home less than an hour. We are grateful that she waited for us.

Mom's doctor, my college friend, had made it clear that if we wanted her there when Mom died, she would come, no matter when. So I called her, and she came right over, missing her son's school performance (she did get to go the next night and see him emcee the show). Dr. Barb declared the death, helped us put a nice dress on Mom, and waited for the funeral home so she could sign the death certificate. Her presence was a big help in keeping things calm.

Jerri and the girls were on their way over to spend the evening. Obviously, while we knew Mom was failing, we didn't anticipate she was going to die quite that soon. Jeanne called Jerri and told her not to come, and why. The girls were in the van, and Kiana listened carefully to her mom's side of the conversation, so that when Jerri hung up, Kiana said, "Who's dying?" Jerri said, "What?", and Kiana said, "You said, 'She's dying right now?' Who's dying?" Jerri told them, "Mary died." Kiana started crying, so Jerri pulled over to comfort her. "I'm so sad," Kiana said, and when Jerri asked her why, she said, "Because now Grambie doesn't have a mommy anymore." Then she proceeded to tell Jerri how grateful she was that she still had her mommy. She's a pretty amazing kid.

Avri, amazing in her own way, hadn't really been paying attention to all of this until the mommy thing came up. Then she announced that she was sad, too, and that she was glad she had her mommy.

The funeral home here in town was great. Here's a link to her obituary:
http://www.asimas.com/ASIMAS/randledable/obituaryDescription.jsp?domain_id=218&deceased_id=218644

Being present for Mom's actual death was what we wanted, but it was also the thing that scared me the most. The way it happened, though, left me feeling that being with her for that moment was a great honor and privilege. It made even these most difficult last few years worth it.

There is, as usual, much more to write, but for now, I send this notice out to the world. I love you, Mom, and I'll miss you always.

Odds and Ends

So ever since I wrote the last entry on Music to Grieve By, I think of other songs I would add to the list. Of course, I haven't been writing them down, so this will not be a complete update. But there are some songs I would like to add.

When I finished my PhD, I made a mix cd for my advisor. Ever since I started the program in one of her classes, I knew that someday I wanted to give her two songs that give thanks--Sinead O'Connor's "Thank You for Hearing Me" and Natalie Merchant's "Kind and Generous." So I had another 70 minutes to fill on the disc, and I filled it with songs that somehow reflected the dissertation/PhD experience. I listen to that cd a lot, as it turns out, and there are some songs on there that do help me in this extended grieving process. Several are from Patty Griffin's Children Running Through cd, especially "I Don't Ever Give Up," "No Bad News," and "Up to the Mountain (MLK song)."

I also find helpful two songs in particular (there are so many to choose from) from Amasong, a lesbian/feminist chorus from Champaign/Urbana that my former college roommate belongs to. They do a lot of folk and spiritual music from a variety of cultures. The two songs I turn to most often (though only one is on my mix cd) are "I Cannot Keep from Singing," and Bobby McFerrin's "23rd Psalm (dedicated to my mother)."

Not on my 'special' cd: I mentioned Peter Gabriel last time; he has many selections that stand out, but "I Grieve" from the City of Angels soundtrack deserves special mention for this purpose.

Yesterday I listened to Shawn Colvin's Fat City. The lyrics sometimes reflect her relative youth in 1992, but her songs are usually thoughtful and emotional, and that works for me. This was also my first Shawn Colvin cd, so I always think of it fondly.

And lest I forget the most important song from the most important film ever made, let me add Judy Garland's "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." I grew up loving that movie, my parents both loved Judy Garland, and "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" is one of the last songs I could get Mom to sing along with. "You are My Sunshine" is the other one. Israel Kamakawiwo'ole's version of "Rainbow" is also a favorite, but in my world, nothing compares to Judy.



Moving on from the music, there is one other item I wanted to post. Yesterday, a friend asked me in an email how my day was. I responded with unusual thoughtfulness on my part, and realized that what I wrote I could have written for this blog as well. So I am inserting a part of it.

"My day is winding down. We get a little online time while watching Mom eat her dinner. She eats herself, but needs some coaching and prompting, and lots of cleanup. But for those 30 minutes or so that she's actually eating, we get a short break. We'll eat after we put her in the recliner, just as we did when you came. It's been an emotional day for me. More and more in the mornings, after getting Mom up and washed and dressed and fed and off to day care on the van, the impact of her long, slow dying, and the prospect of her actual death getting more real and foreseeable, all puts me in touch with a grief that doesn't moderate with time. It's worse on the mornings I go to yoga, as I did this morning. Yoga makes me slow down, breathe, and become aware of what's going on internally. And now the end of the day, near the end of the week, and I'm tired. It was a good day overall, mostly because it started with yoga, and no matter what that brings up, it still feels better to start the day that way."

And so it goes.

Music to Grieve By

So today I thought I'd write about some of the music I listen to that is most helpful as we live with Mom's care. And the truth is, it is music to grieve by. Every day as I watch Mom deteriorate, even slightly, the grief continues and accumulates. It's as wearing as her daily care. It is, in fact, almost inconceivable, which is why finding something like music that acknowledges grief, accesses it, and/or comforts it is something I spend time thinking about.

(Warning: I'm a Lilith Fair kinda gal, which explains the pool from which I dip. )

The most obvious choice is Rosanne Cash's Black Cadillac (2006). Written after losing her stepmother (June Carter Cash, d. 5/15/2003), father (Johnny Cash, d. 9/12/2003), and mother (Vivian Distin, d. 5/25/2005) in the space of two years, the album is clearly a personal portrait of loss. At the same time, Cash leaves room for the listener to access his or her own grief, whatever that may be. Two of my favorite songs include "I Was Watching You" and "God Is In the Roses." Throughout the album, Cash speaks directly to, about, and for her parents, especially her dad, Johnny Cash. In "I Was Watching You," she speaks to him, singing, "All these years to prove how much I care / I didn't know it, but you were always there / until September when you slipped away / in the middle of my life / on the longest day / now I hear you say / I'll be watching you / from above / cause long after life there is love."

Lest you think she gets maudlin, in "God Is In the Roses," she takes the stock image of a rose and makes it concrete and real, playing, I believe, on the cliche, "God is in the details":

God is in the roses
the petals and the thorns
storms out on the oceans
the souls who will be born
and every drop of rain that falls
falls for those who mourn
God in in the roses
and the thorns



The sun is on the cemetery
leaves are on the stones
there never was a place on earth
that felt so much like home
we're falling like the velvet petals
we're bleeding and we're torn
but God is in the roses
and the thorns

If I could play one song at Mom's funeral, that would be it.

There is also Cash's song "September When It Comes," from her Rules of Travel cd. It's her only recorded duet with her dad, and it's unbelievably touching. He was clearly weak when they recorded it, and his voice is a little scratchier than usual. Plus it's about aging, and was recorded in his last years. I heard Rosanne interviewed on NPR's "Fresh Air" after it came out, and the whole concept of the song and performing it with sick father was incredibly moving. Here's one verse:

"I plan to crawl outside these walls / Close my eyes and see / And fall into the heart and arms / Of those who wait for me / I cannot move a mountain now / I can no longer run / I cannot be who I was then / In a way, I never was." To hear Johnny's voice creaking a little on that verse is poignant, to say the least. And then for him to actually die in September--that's synchronicity.

Another album that gets frequent play around here and helps me keep in touch with my grief is Annie Lennox's Songs of Mass Destruction. While not specifically about grief, both the tone and lyrics set the mood. Most notable for me is the song "Dark Road." It was on this morning, and these lyrics jumped out at me: "I can't find the joy within my soul / it's just sadness takin' hold / I wanna come in from the cold / and make myself renewed again / it takes strength to live this way / the same old madness every day / I wanna kick these blues away / I wanna learn to live again." It's not that I feel my life is that oppressive all the time, but sometimes you just have to give vent. Another song on this album that gets me is "Lost." On this one, it's not the lyrics as much as Lennox's plaintive voice wailing that one line, "We're lost." It speaks grief to me, and speaks to my own grief, watching my mother die by degrees.
Of course, Lennox plays some much stronger, driving songs, and those can help process feelings, sometimes regardless of the lyrics. It's a very addictive album.

The other album on my most frequent rotation list really has nothing at all to do with grief, but Sia's singing is moving nonetheless. Some People Have Real Problems is my favorite, but Colour the Small One has some great songs, too. I got interested in Sia after seeing her phenomenal video for "Soon We'll Be Found." I'd never seen anything like it. Then my granddaughters fell in love with it. If Sia is playing now, and that song comes on, Avri freezes and says, "Listen! It's my favorite song!" She and Kiana try to do the signing then (she does some ASL in the video), but that usually evolves into general interpretive dance. Anyway, Sia is a great one for a contemplative soundtrack.



Looking at an incomplete list of my itunes music, the Beatles get several mentions ("The Long and Winding Road" being the first one to pop into my head), Elton John a few (see, I do listen to some male music), Peter Gabriel, and a few odd other assorted characters. More to be added? No doubt. I could revisit this topic over and over, I believe.